-Nothing in the Living Room Looks Wet-

-Nothing in the Living Room Looks Wet-

I sold wet in the estate sale, folded edges to a taut crease,

snickered at the purchaser’s silhouette.

Oh how I knew wet would lengthen along my porch -

Trying to hold on - you're so strong, but not that strong.

The purchaser was down the drive by this point, face turned the sun.

Wet was meant for her now: her epiphanies, her stemware, her thighs.

My days to follow like others - doors open, close. I let the cat out, let the cat in.

Then, one day you show up in my garden,
Singing:

Tell me the sea 

is dangerous

please. 

All this used to be under water, I say. 

The settling sun between two peaks,  

Our fish and bones make these mountains. 

You disappear through the gate. I follow you into the fog -

watch puddles dry where your feet have been.

The living room never talks about its feral cats –

its wild horses – its strangers who swim like music.

Remember when we were strangers who swam like music?

You had cleared one side of the room, took my hand -

So we can have wide open space, you said.

The walls turned horizon and rock, and we were at sea -
On this high cliff, the tide rose and waves crashed so unforgivably.

Years later, I still can't get salt out of my hair.

Let's be sea creatures next time.